Chapter Eight
At eleven o’clock on the following morning, Mrs Alicia Stamford, as promised, accompanied by the Marchioness of Burford and the infant Marquis, all suitably dressed for an informal morning visit, took the barouche to cover the short distance to Faringdon House in style.
‘We must devise some means to encourage Octavia to bring the nursemaid and the child into the room. I doubt it will be too difficult.’ Mrs Stamford settled herself in the carriage in a decided manner and unfurled her parasol. ‘Since you have the baby with you, it would be natural to wish to praise and admire.’ She removed the tassel of her embroidered reticule from Tom’s inquisitive fingers with firm and well-practised skill. ‘I will engage Octavia in conversation. You may talk with Sarah about the family.’
‘Thank you, Mama!’ Eleanor’s smile was wry. ‘I am not sure who has drawn the short straw.’ She distracted Tom from eating the fingers of her new kid gloves. ‘I hope that she is of a confiding nature!’
As it happened, there was no need for devious plotting on the part of the two ladies. The morning was warm and sunny. There, in the private garden with its ornamental railing in the centre of Grosvenor Square, they spied Octavia Baxendale, her nursemaid and her son taking advantage of the mild temperature. Octavia sat comfortably beneath a tree, a little apart, a book open on her lap. On the grass some distance before her sat Sarah with the child John. High voices and excited shouts gave evidence that other families from the Square, both children and nursemaids, were enjoying the fine morning with childhood games.
‘Fortune smiles on us so far.’ Mrs Stamford gave her hand to their coachman and descended, all regal dignity, to take this crucial meeting with Octavia Baxendale under her control.
The ladies exchanged greetings. Enquired after their respective health. They had come, Mrs Stamford explained, to ask after the welfare of Miss Baxendale after the demands of the previous evening and her meeting the Faringdon family en masse. A most successful at home, was it not, as acknowledged by all. Lady Beatrice Faringdon had particularly commented on her enjoyment at renewing her acquaintance with Miss Baxendale. She clearly remembered their previous meetings very well, when Octavia had first made her curtsy, in spite of the passage of time. And had Sir Edward found it an amusing experience? Mrs Stamford had noticed that he played a skilful hand of whist.
Eleanor hid a smile and simply allowed her mother to continue unchecked. Octavia expressed no surprise, no recognition of, or response to, Mrs Stamford’s subtle comments and answered in her usual calm manner. She smiled. Her eyes rested on her visitors with guileless acceptance. She was very well. No, she had not found it unduly stressful. Yes, she had enjoyed the evening, particularly her conversation with Lady Beatrice, who reminded her a little of her mother. So pleasant to have such a large family. Edward had said what an agreeable evening it had been. All so elegant and comfortable, as they had expected, of course.
Eleanor sighed inwardly and did not envy her mother her self-imposed task of bringing Octavia out of herself.
But Mrs Stamford sat beside Octavia, all determination, arranged her skirts and her parasol and set herself to entertain and elicit information. They discussed the care and design of gardens—of which Eleanor’s masterful mama had limited knowledge, but yet approved as an interest worthy of a lady; and Byron’s latest offerings of Parisina and The Siege of Corinth, both offered in the same volume—which she had never read but willingly condemned, as she did with equal fervency the infamous author for his scandalously wild life and lack of gentility, despite his elevated birth. There was no accounting for such aberrations in even the most well-born of families, she declaimed with a sharp glance at Octavia.
But Octavia had little to add beyond another smile and an inclination of her head. Nor did she claim acquaintance with the works of Lord Byron. Mrs Stamford quickly came to the conclusion that she had never spent so tedious a morning. Miss Baxendale might be a pretty girl with acceptable manners—no fault to be found in her upbringing, for sure—but she had absolutely nothing to say for herself. How Thomas could have married her, she would never understand! But then, she caught herself on the thought, she had to hold on to the conviction that he had never done so.
Meanwhile Eleanor, to the detriment of her figured muslin gown—but it was in a good cause, after all—sat on the grass with Sarah and the two children. Tom was intrigued, too young to enjoy the company of another infant, but content to crawl and to try to eat the daisy heads, which were opening in the sunshine. John ran about on sturdy legs, throwing a ball to Sarah when she encouraged him, but lured by the cries of the other children in the garden. Sarah allowed him to approach their game when the temptation grew too great to withstand, but kept a sharp eye on him. Octavia seemed unconcerned, deep in a discussion with Mrs Stamford of the value of auriculas for spring planting.
Here was Eleanor’s chance.
Naturally enough, Eleanor tried to encourage Sarah to talk about children. Their ailments. Their diet. The needs of a tearful, teething baby and how to encourage an excitable child to sleep. It should have been easy, but Eleanor found it hard work. Sarah was, for the most part, monosyllabic. Not shy, Eleanor decided, so much as intensely reserved, although clearly knowledgeable about the range of subjects that they covered. She unobtrusively took stock of the young woman sitting on the grass. Neat, was the word that sprang to mind. Hair drawn severely back into a knot at the nape of her neck with no curls allowed to flatter her face. Carefully dressed, without decoration of any degree, but in good quality clothes. Fair skin, blue eyes. As they talked she relaxed a little and was more willing to develop her answers to Eleanor’s gentle enquiries. Her voice low and well modulated, her speech evidence of a thorough education. And there was a certain confidence about her as she sat with the sunshine dappling her hair and features, shining through the leaves of the elms above them. Her eyes were reluctant to meet Eleanor’s at first, but gradually did so as she forgot her restraints in conversation with the Marchioness of Burford. Her hands, loosely folded in her lap, were long fingered and fine with none of the roughness that might be expected in a domestic servant.
Eleanor was puzzled. And then realised that there was no need. Here in all probability was a young woman from a good family, fallen on hard times, and forced to take service as companion or governess with an established family. It was a frequent occurrence, after all. She had Eleanor’s sympathy.
Having wrung every possible detail from the topic of children, Eleanor attempted to extend the conversation. To the matter of the Baxendales. How loyal would the nursemaid be in the face of pertinent questions? There was no way for Eleanor to know until she tried.
Did she enjoy town life? Would she rather be back at home in the village of Whitchurch? Did she find it very secluded there or did the Baxendales have a vast acquaintance who might visit the Great House with children for John to play with?
Sarah rapidly took refuge in monosyllables again, eyes downcast. Eleanor was getting nowhere, but persisted.
Did Sarah remember when Octavia came out? Was she in the family employ? How long had she been with the family? Miss Baxendale had said that Sarah was once her companion before taking over the care of the child. She must have enjoyed being in such a close relationship with her employer.
The Marchioness gritted her teeth. With no encouragement from Sarah, it was fast giving the appearance of a cross-examination. So Eleanor gave up. If they were to learn anything about the Baxendale family, it would not be from this girl who sat so still and composed and distant beside her. And was intent on saying nothing but yes or no! But why did she get the impression that there was far more below the controlled surface, something that troubled the girl, her eyes strained, her lips pulled tight and thin in her otherwise serene face? It occurred to Eleanor that there was an indefinable sadness about the young woman, but there would be no confidences exchanged here, even without the social divide of Marchioness and servant.
They were suddenly interrupted by a squabble and sharp voices between the knot of children in the centre of the garden. Who should hold the lead of a lively brown terrier